Supper Rush
by Screaming Faeries
Summary: It's the 1940s, and Hermione Granger is the warden of the largest wizarding Mental Asylum in England, where some of the worlds most dangerous psychopaths are kept. She isn't always left alone in the hospital, but one evening with a lack of staff, she is forced to dish out supper to the patients herself.


**Supper Rush**

 **Word Count:** 1,154

 **Written For:  
**

Hawkflight7 for the October Exchange. Prompt use: glass of wine

Gringotts Prompt Bank:  
\- Sex & the City prompts: (word) Power, (object) Cigarette, (dialogue) "Most men are threatened by successful women.", (quote) It's hard to imagine that someone so beautiful could ever be lonely., (action) Lighting a friends cigarette.  
\- AU prompts: Asylum!AU

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Hermione sighed, looking up from her paperwork and glancing at the ornate clock on the wall. It was just short of nine in the evening; almost supper time at Blossomvale Hospital.

It was 1941, and Hermione hated her job as the warden for the largest wizarding mental institution in England, but there wasn't really anyone else who would do the job, and do a good job doing it. It was unusual for a woman of this day and age to have such a role of power, but Hermione maintained that it was a woman's job. No man could appropriately care for others—even if the majority were criminals.

Hermione refused to fall back to the cruel ways that the Muggles treat the psychologically maimed, no matter what crimes they had committed. She was determined to lead the wizarding world into the twenty-first century.

A small knock on the door of her office brought her mind back to the present. "Come in," she called tiredly, and the door swung open. Dressed in a pale blue staff apron was Luna Lovegood—the only unpaid volunteer among the staff. She smiled at her boss as she entered. "I'm just coming to let you know that I'll be going home now, Miss Granger," she told Hermione.

Hermione furrowed her brow, glancing back up at the clock. "I thought you were working until eleven?"

Luna's smile faltered a little. "No Miss—I finish at nine on Thursdays, remember?"

"Right," Hermione muttered, leaning back in her chair.

"Also, the matron left early. She was feeling sick again."

Hermione rolled her eyes expressively, trying to resist the urge to groan in her face. Daphne Greengrass monitored mealtimes for the entire hospital, and she was also usually the only one besides Hermione left on a night. Without her around, Hermione was going to have to deal with supper alone.

"Okay, Luna," Hermione dismissed, feeling even more tired than ever. "You can go." She almost hoped, as Luna grinned and shimmied out of the office, that the volunteer would offer to stick around for a little longer. As the door clicked shut behind her, Hermione deflated.

oOo

About thirty minutes later, Hermione found herself pushing a trolley full of cereal, bread and milk through the West Wing, where the male patients were kept. They usually spent their days in the various communal rooms, but after eight they were locked back in their cells, and were given supper in their rooms.

Distributing supper though the small windows of the cell doors was not a job that Hermione often had, but someone had to do it on that night.

She parked up her trolley smartly outside cell three-two-six, and knocked on the door before sliding the metal plate across the window so that she could see inside. "Dear Merlin!" she gasped, diving away from the door—as soon as she had opened the window, the inmate's dark brown eyes were visible behind the door, as if he had been stood waiting for hours.

Hermione composed herself quickly and glanced at the clipboard on her trolley, which held the names of all of the patients and their cell numbers. "Crouch Junior," she barked, checking the name off the list. "Back away from the door, and I can give you your supper."

The brown-eyed man slunk away from the door and perched on his bed, whilst Hermione observed him carefully. He was a slightly emaciated man, with dark sandy hair and a knowing look in his glittering eyes and smirk. Hermione vaguely remembered admitting him to the hospital, but she hadn't really paid much attention to him otherwise.

"You're not Luna or Matron," he commented, his voice sounding slippery. "You're the warden. What are you doing here?"

"That's none of your business, Mr Crouch," Hermione replied smoothly. "Now, would you like cereal or bread and jam?"

"You're pretty," he muttered. "I like your hair."

"Thank you. Cereal or bread and jam?" repeated Hermione. It wasn't the first time that her or any of the other female staff received compliments—sometimes very rude ones —from the patients.

"I'm not hungry," Barty answered, and Hermione watched as he pulled a cigarette out of a small silver pouch, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes glimmered expectantly. "Seeing as you're here, do you have a light?"

Hermione pursed her lips, and beckoned to him. Barty stood up from the bed and advanced on the door, poking his cigarette through the gap in the door, and Hermione lit it effortlessly with her wand. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke back into her face, causing her to frown.

"Do you want something to drink?" she asked, her voice sounding a little sharper than she had intended.

"Sure. A glass of wine would hit the spot."

The shadow of a smile flickered across Hermione's face, and she knew that Barty hadn't missed it. "Ha-ha," she scoffed sarcastically. "You can have cocoa, tea or milk."

"No coffee?"

"You know that you're not allowed caffeine after six. It addles with your medication," Hermione paused. "Are you trying to get your own way with me because I don't often do supper service?"

Barty grinned. "You caught me out," he took another deep inhale of his cigarette. "I'll have tea." He watched as Hermione carefully began to pour hot tea into a mug. "Why are you here so late, anyway? Shouldn't you be at home with Mr Granger?"

Hermione pursed her lips again and avoided eye contact with Barty. "There isn't a Mr Granger—unless you count my father." She added milk to the tea and stirred it slowly.

"Really?" Barty sounded genuinely interested. "It's hard to imagine that anyone so beautiful could ever be lonely."

Hermione felt heat rising in her cheeks as she passed the mug of tea through the window. "I never said I was lonely, I just said that I wasn't married. And no, I'm not in a relationship either, Mr Crouch," she added, spotting the question in his eyes.

"Why not?" he pressed.

She sighed, placing the lids back on the teapot and jug of milk. "I don't know. I suppose...these days, most men are threatened by successful women."

"I wouldn't be threatened by you," Barty murmured silkily, pressing his face even closer through the gap. "I'd _worship_ you."

Hermione couldn't help but smile, but it wasn't just because of the compliment. "That's enough, Mr Crouch," she ordered, and he grinned. "I'm sure you say the same things to Luna and Matron."

Barty stubbed his cigarette out on the door and flicked it through the gap in the window, and Hermione caught it expertly. "You can't knock a guy for trying," he answered cheekily. Hermione rolled her eyes and started pushing her trolley up the corridor and to the next cell.

Part of her was already slightly looking forward to seeing Barty Crouch tomorrow in the communal areas.


End file.
